


Hoping The Next One Is A Molotov

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Absolute Silliness, Alcohol, Crack Fic, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The daily appearance of a mysterious cocktail brings Finch and Reese to the edge of insanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Silliness ahead.

John was awakened from the deepest sleep he allowed himself, and he answered on the second ring.

“Finch?” He glanced at the clock. 5:14 a.m. was in the gray area between the _something-important-enough-to-wake-John-about_ and the infinitely more serious _Dear-Lord-everyone-on-the-planet-is-going-to-die-and-also-moths-have-invaded-my-wardrobe_ level of urgency.

“Mr. Reese, do I have you to thank for this unusual... gift?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Silence on the line. “What _are_ you talking about, Finch?”

Finch drew a trembling breath. “If you and Miss Shaw are telling the truth, then I’m afraid I have no choice but to initiate the Alexandria Protocol.”

Whatever this was, it was quickly leaning toward the _everyone-is-going-to-die_ category. “Understood, Finch. Alexandria Protocol.” Reese ended the call, then dropped the phone to the floor. He wasn’t wearing shoes with which he could smash it, so he settled for stabbing it with the knife he kept under the mattress.

\----------

Two hours later, they met at the rendezvous, a 24-hour diner in North Brunswick. The morning crowd was starting to get thick. When Finch entered, he looked grief-stricken, as though he’d lost a good friend. Which he had, in a way.

“I’m sorry about the library,” John said softly as Finch sat down across from him.

The Alexandria Protocol had been their plan in case the library were ever compromised. Incendiary devices, hidden all over the library interior, had been activated remotely by mobile phone. The books, the computers, the arsenal, _everything_ had been destroyed. It was sad, but necessary. This was why Reese didn’t like becoming too attached to any place.

Finch nodded at the condolence. “Things, including books, can be replaced, Mr. Reese. Our lives cannot.”

“So what happened? How did you know the library was compromised?”

Finch licked his lips anxiously. “I went in early to finish the code of our Trojan horse for the Wallace case. On my desk, in front of my keyboard, was a mojito.”

Reese blinked. “A what?”

“A mojito. Or, what I’m assuming was a mojito, judging from its appearance. Muddled mint and so forth. I didn’t dare taste it to make sure.”

“And you have no idea where it came from?”

“You and Miss Shaw both denied placing it there. And it couldn’t have been there long-- The ice cubes hadn’t even begun to melt, and there was only the slightest condensation on the outside of the glass. It’s as though it materialized as soon as I entered the building.”

“What about Leon?”

“Mr. Tao is in Toronto at the moment, running God knows what kind of scheme. I verified his whereabouts before contacting you.”

Reese took a deep breath. Someone unknown to them had definitely been in the library. “What about the security cameras?”

“There was a glitch in every recording. They showed the desk was as usual, then after one minute of static, the mojito was there.” He gratefully took a sip from the water glass a waitress had placed in front of him. “It seems so much trouble to go to, just to taunt us.”

John nodded. It didn’t make sense.

\----------

They spent the day in John’s nearby motel room. Reese watched the security footage Finch had pulled, of the streets surrounding the library. He spent hours looking for signs of the intruder, but he found nothing of interest.

Finch scoured the darknet for any bounties on their heads or other leads, and hacked into the ISA servers in search of any hint of a clue to the identity of who had infiltrated the library, all to no avail.

Meanwhile, Shaw had abruptly decided to take Bear on a road trip to the Midwest, where she said it would be safer for the dog. Fusco was busy sniffing around and reaching out to his own connections.

John insisted that Finch get some sleep when night came. Reese had intended to stay awake and keep an eye out for danger, but after an hour of watching a silent parking lot and listening to Finch snore away in his silk pajamas, he couldn’t help himself. He stripped down to boxers and spooned his boss, snuggling up to the reclusive billionaire like he was a beloved and very sexy teddy bear.

Finch awoke with the first rays of dawn. Finding himself wrapped in the strong arms of his employee, he sighed, rolled his eyes, and gently extricated himself without waking the younger man. He made use of the bathroom and went to turn on his laptop before getting dressed.

“Mr. Reese!”

In the blink of an eye, John was at his side, gun at the ready. “What is it, Finch?”

Finch could only point at the desk.

There, in front of the closed laptop, was a glass of what appeared to be orange juice.

Reese cautiously sniffed the drink and took a tiny sip. “Fuzzy navel.” Another sip. “Maybe a hairy navel. Not sure.”

Finch sat down on the bed, his terror mounting. “They were _here_. In this room, with us.”

Reese’s cheeks flushed. If only he’d stayed awake instead of succumbing to temptation and wrapping his lean, muscular, nearly-nude body around the warm, silk-covered softness of Harold, the scent of the older man’s gentlemanly natural musk giving the ex-op sweet dreams of Finch, satin sheets and being spanked while he called Finch ‘Daddy.’

“Mr. Reese, what do they want?”

“I suppose they’re trying to frighten us.”

“It’s working,” Finch groaned.

“Pack up. We’re leaving.”

\------------

The pair were so spooked that they drove all the way to Ohio, periodically switching to another hot-wired car. They found a run-down motel outside of Cincinnati and paid cash. Then John ditched the car two miles away and hoofed it back to the room.

That night, neither of them could sleep. They lay wrapped in each other’s arms for emotional support, every small sound, from the ice machine to the people in the next room engaging in loud coitus, sending shivers of fear down their spines.

When the first light cracked through the almost-shut curtains, John turned on a lamp, then stood and stretched his aching muscles, striking various poses and flexing for added effect. Finch stared, wide-eyed, past him, at the desk where he’d set out his laptop.

In front of the computer was a dirty martini.

“John, I can’t take this any longer,” Harold wept. “Every morning, at my computer, it’s there-- Another cocktail! And it’s _never_ anything that we even _like_!” A sob. “They keep appearing. I wish they would just stop showing up and leave us alone!”

John gingerly picked up the martini by the stem, opened the motel room door and flung the drink across the parking lot, making a satisfying crash of broken glass on the asphalt. He came back inside and locked the door. “It’s gone for now, Finch.”

"John, are we going insane? Is this situation really happening?"

"I don't know, Finch," John sighed, looking out the window. "I don't know."

_To be continued?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese and Finch learn that they are far from the only ones receiving unwanted cocktails every day.
> 
> Finch grows increasingly uncomfortable with Reese's advances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cray-cray.
> 
> And no, this isn't leading anywhere in particular.

“Fusco, are Finch and I going crazy?” He had to be dreaming, Reese thought to himself, as he addressed the burner cell that lay on the motel table, in speakerphone mode. First the cocktails appearing, and now he was asking Fusco, of all people, for reassurance that he and his partner were mentally sound. But they needed the reassurance from _somebody._

“Yeah, you guys _are_ a little crazy,” Fusco muttered into his cell. “But I’ve known that for a long time.” A slight chuckle. “Anyways, it’s not just you and Glasses who are plagued by the unwanted girly drinks. The station here is filled with more nutjobs and weirdos, and even fellow cops, all reporting that they’re experiencing the very same thing.”

“That does make us feel a little better, Detective.” Finch pinched the bridge of his nose as though he were staving off a sinus headache. “Although we’d appreciate it if you didn’t lump us in with the nutjobs and weirdos.” 

“Whatever. Hey, I even found a Subreddit for you freaks who keep finding mysterious cocktails.” He picked up a list he’d written. “There are posts from Washington state, Vancouver, Paris, Portland Oregon, Washington D.C., Chicago, Toronto, Green Groves New York, Pasadena, Los Angeles, Miami, Salem-someplace, San Diego, New Orleans, Seattle...”

“We get it, Lionel,” Reese growled. “It’s happening all over North America.”

A crash could be heard in the background from Fusco’s end of the call.

“Detective, what was that?”

“Aw fuck. We’ve got some homicide detectives from the 12th here, filing cocktail reports, and their ass-clown ‘writer’ sidekick is fraying every nerve belonging to the SVU team from the 16th, who are also here to file reports.” A sigh. “How the Hell did I became the only member of the NYPD’s Cocktail Task Force, anyway? Shit.”

“Mr. Reese, I wonder if we should perhaps return to New York. Whatever the cause of this phenomenon, we don’t appear to be the only ones affected. Besides, these undesired beverages appear no matter where we are.”

Reese nodded. “We’ll head back, Lionel. Keep us posted on any developments.”

“You got--OH JESUS! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK! Yeeesh!”

“Detective?”

“A group of elderly broads from Miami just posted nude photos of themselves to the Spontaneous-Cocktail-Materialization Subreddit. Holy shit. I guess they drank a few too many.”

Finch sighed. “Stay in touch, Detective.”

“Will do, Glasses.” The call ended.

Finch heard a ‘shutterclick’ sound effect and turned to find Reese stretching out his waistband and using his own burner smartphone to take a picture of the contents of his boxer shorts. Finch decided the best response would be to ignore the younger man. He set about packing his things for the return trip.

A moment later, Finch’s burner phone dinged. Finch unlocked it and opened the message to find a extremely close-up photo of an obscene nature, with a familiar-looking pattern of boxer shorts visible along the edges of the frame.

Reese waggled his eyebrows, his legs splayed wide across the bed. “Have I been a bad boy, Daddy?” he asked in his most sultry voice.

Finch marched into the bathroom without a word, locking the door behind him and turning on the shower.

Reese sighed heavily and turned on the TV, hoping to find some pay-per-view porn to rub one out to. He was pleased to find that there was a wide array of fetish videos available, including the particularly alluring “All-Male Nerd Rescues and Kneecap Destruction VII,” featuring porn stars Ben Penis, as the older nerd who is constantly getting beat up and taken hostage by thugs with delicate kneecaps, and Jesus Crisco, as the dashing 'James Bond' sort of character who always comes to Ben's rescue while causing as much patellar carnage as possible. Of course, there is always a lot of post-rescue sex and 'daddy play' involved.

John fucking _loved_ this series.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Finch uses the motel room shower, John takes care of a personal need.
> 
> (Note that rating has been upgraded to Explicit.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right when Chapter 2 left off.
> 
> I still don't know where this ridiculousness is going, but I thought some readers might enjoy it.
> 
> I hope it's clear which parts of this chapter are taking place on the TV and which parts are about John in the hotel room. If anything is confusing, please let me know!

John grabbed the travel-size bottle of lube from his toiletry bag, lay back against a pile of pillows, and punched buttons on the remote control to start the pay-per-view porn.

“All-Male Nerd Rescues and Kneecap Destruction VII: Trouble in Paradise” read the title screen, as sultry, funky music played.

The screen faded in on middle-aged, diminutive porn-star Ben Penis, a sandy beach in the background. He was bloodied and beaten, and tied with thick ropes into a stress position against a palm tree.

John softly caressed himself through his boxers and let out a whine. No! Poor Ben!

A tall, bald man wearing military pants and a slim-fitting t-shirt smacked Ben on the side of the head. “You’re a bad man. Bad! You lie a lot!” Another slap, harder this time. 

Ben suppressed a yelp. “No, you don’t understand! I’m trying to do good!”

“You’re a good liar!” Baldy repeatedly kicked Ben in the flank, sending the smaller man into blubbering sobs. “It’s my purpose in life to punish you!”

John groaned as he pulled the front of his boxers down to give his rapidly-expanding manhood more room. He drizzled lube over his straining rod. Poor, sweet, little Ben! How terrible!

Baldy and Ben were joined by a long-haired blond man who wore jeans, a denim shirt, and who hadn’t shaved in several days.

“Well, lookie here,” the blond man cooed, with a Southern drawl. “We got us a puny little liar to play with!”

John found himself swallowing back drool as the Southern gent punched Ben in the face, over and over and over. John slowly stroked his achingly hard cock. Oh, no! Ben!

Ben gasped for breath between blows. When the barrage ended, he howled in pain, his face even more bloodied now. “Please stop! Please!”

Suddenly, pornstar Jesus Crisco, a tall, muscular man with short salt-and-pepper hair, stepped onto the beach. He was dressed like a suave super-spy in a white shirt and black suit. The music changed from merely ‘sultry’ to ‘thrilling-and-sultry.’ He flicked a collapsible baton to its fullest length. “Stop hurting him!”

Baldy and the Southern gent glowered at the newcomer and assumed fighting stances.

Crisco attacked, focusing the baton’s blows on the mens’ knees.

John found himself stroking faster as the bad guys screamed in agony, their kneecaps probably reduced to powder by the endless whacks Crisco administered.

When the goons had passed out from the pain, Crisco knelt at Ben’s side and took the older man’s bloody face gently in his hands. “Are you all right?”

Ben shuddered as he sobbed, leaning into the comforting touch. “It hurts!”

John was panting. His hand moved so fast that it was just a blur. Ben was in pain! Oh no! Oh no!

Crisco produced a huge army knife from somewhere and used it to cut the ropes that bound his injured lover. When the smaller man was free, he picked him up, bride-style, and carried him away into the jungle.

The scene faded to a large, luxurious bathroom, dozens of candles surrounding a gently steaming bath. Softer, more sensuous music played as Crisco lowered a suddenly-nude Ben into the water. He gently washed away the blood while giving the smaller man copious tender kisses to his cheeks and forehead, although Ben appeared to be too out-of-it from the beating to notice.

John wanted to hold back and make it last, but this was becoming very difficult. He could feel the heat in his groin building as he neared climax.

Crisco gently dribbled warm bath water down Ben’s face.

In the same moment that John clenched his eyes shut and rocketed out an enormous load of jism, Finch emerged from the bathroom and stepped into the line of fire. John contined to groan and jerk himself through the aftershocks, his eyes still closed.

When he opened them, he saw Finch standing frozen before him.

Finch, now sporting a generous, runny dollop of spunk on the front panel of his suit-jacket, stared at John like he’d just witnessed a terrible accident involving a schoolbus full of children and an active volcano.

John fumbled at pulling up his waistband to cover himself. As he did so, his elbow accidentally hit the remote control and changed the channel to the Food Network. He sat staring at Finch, mortified.

Finch regained some of his composure and began removing his suit-jacket. “Mr. Reese, the next time you have the urge to... _satisfy your personal needs_ while watching—” a glance at the TV “—footage from a jelly bean factory, please let me know and I will avoid the area until you give the all-clear.”

John cleared his throat, but his voice still came out as a squeak. “Sure, Finch.”


End file.
